Good Morning
by dreamingofgallifrey
Summary: Johnlock oneshot. Sherlock has a strange nightmare. Whose voice does he keep hearing in his dreams? A bit of fluff I wrote a few nights ago. Also posted on my Watty account.


Sherlock is running through a thick fog. Everything around him is blanketed in the strange, dark substance. He doesn't know what he's running from, only that he must find something in this endless labyrinth. But find what? It's impossible to see more than a few centimetres ahead in any direction. As far as he knows, he is alone.

_Utterly alone._

He runs through the fog, beginning to panic. He's a little scared, being here, all on his own. It's clear to him now that the _something_ he must find must be a _someone_. He becomes aware that his feet are bare and he's running across a spongy, grassy forest floor. A chilly breeze is blowing in his face, trying to fly away with his dressing gown. He clings on to it tightly. It's cold here, on his own.

He slows down gradually and begins to walk. The cold has sapped some of his strength and the darkness is closing in on him.

And that's when he hears it. A loud, insistent call. Someone was shouting his name.

"Sherlock?" the voice yells desperately, "Sherlock, oh God, SHERLOCK!"

He freezes for a moment indecisively trying to deduce where the voice was coming from. Then he turns around, madly trying to reach out and find it.

"Sherlock, where are you?" the voice almost chokes mid sentence. All the doubt in Sherlock's mind is eviscerated. He knows the voice is looking for him and that he is looking for the voice and that they _must _find each other. He begins to run faster, almost stumbling over something in the gloom. He curses loudly before he picks himself up again and rapidly tries to process the thoughts flooding his mind. _Who_ is the voice? _Where_ is it coming from? And _why_ must he find it?

But he has no time to pause and dwell on the answers, he must continue, or he'll be lost here, alone again.

He misses the voice. He almost recognised it for a moment, when it first called him. A glimpse of memory flits across his mind but before he can catch it, the memory is lost again, disappearing into the depths of oblivion. He sucks in a sharp breath. Why had it stopped calling him? Was this a trap? No, it couldn't be. However much Sherlock wants to deny it, he _trusts _this voice. It sounds like a warm melody, full of deep inflections, rolling over one another like a waterfall. He knew the voice, now he just had to find the owner.

Strange, the fog seemed to be slowly lifting. Sherlock slows his pace, a little uncertain of what is ahead of him. A shadowy figure begins to emerge from the mist and walks towards him.

Sherlock's heart almost stops in surprise.

"Sherlock" the voice says quietly, smiling as it reaches out to him. Sherlock looks at the strange shadow figure, almost puzzled for a he realises and places his hand firmly in the stranger's warm grip. There was no doubt he felt safer now. Maybe a little company was all he had needed in this dark place.

But of course it was _him. _How could it ever have been anyone else?

The next thing he knows, Sherlock is lying in a soft comfortable bed. His eyes flutter open slowly. He blinks to clear his blurry vision. It's morning. Sherlock watches the dust particles gleam in the stream of daylight entering through the window. He sighs a little mournfully. It was just a dream.

He sits up slowly, trying to keep his balance steady as his head spins. It was just a dream, he tells himself. His brain was conjuring up images in the night to help him interpret what he saw in reality. That was all. It wasn't real.

How he wishes it was though! The sense of safety and acceptance he had felt with the stranger in the fog had been above anything he'd ever felt in reality. Almost like...

But sentiment is simply a chemical defect found in the losing side. So he takes in a deep breath, closes his eyes and hardens his heart.

"Sherlock?" a familiar voice says, softly.

Sherlock almost falls out of the bed in surprise. Is he still dreaming? No, this was surely reality. But then, how? How could this be possible?

"Morning", the voice says cheerily, as it steps out of the half lit shadows behind the door, "Thought you might like a cup of tea"

It's the same voice. The same one. Sherlock's head begins to spin again. He opens his eyes breathing heavily. What could this mean?

He hears the creaking of bedsprings as someone settles themselves near him on the bed and the aroma of tea wafts through the room. An arm holding a mug of hot tea and wearing a rather hideous jumper reaches out towards him.

Sherlock accepts the cup of tea, his arm brushing against the soft wool of the man's jumper as he does so. A tingle of shock passes through Sherlock's body as he understands.

Sherlock sipped at the tea, almost laughing at his stupidity. He looked down at the messy blanket covering his lap, secretly grinning to himself. Of course! How could it ever have been anyone else?

"Good morning John", Sherlock mumurs, smiling.


End file.
